Samuel Reed Kept an Old Wooden Bat Behind the Pantry Door for Twenty Years
By ten the sun had the frost off the shed roof and Frank had the truck backed to the doors.
Frank, my brother, sixty-one years old and still throwing bales like he was running infield drills.
“You going to stand there or you going to stack?”
We worked the hay off the wagon fifty pounds at a time and he kept a count under his breath.
“Hollis Pruitt’s boy came by the co-op,” he said around a bale.
“Asked if you were still selling.”
“Eddie told me.”
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